Why We Ate Dinner Without Speaking for a Year

The silence began on a Tuesday.

It wasn’t loud, like a door slamming or a scream echoing down a hallway. It was quieter than that—almost polite. My father set the table, just like always. I brought over the plates, careful not to clink the silverware. We sat across from each other, side by side in our grief, and ate in silence.

It was the first dinner after Mom died.

And it would be the first of many.

Before that year, our home was full of sound. My mom used to hum while she cooked, slipping between Frank Sinatra and Fleetwood Mac as effortlessly as she flipped pancakes. My dad would tell long-winded stories about his students, half of which I was sure he made up. I used to roll my eyes, pretend to be annoyed—but I loved it. The noise made our kitchen feel alive.

And then, suddenly, it didn’t.

The first few weeks after she passed, people came by with casseroles and soft hugs and too many words. I didn’t remember most of them. They meant well, but nothing anyone said could fill the space she left behind.

When the last dish was returned, and the condolences stopped arriving, the quiet settled in.

That’s when dinner changed.

My dad and I didn’t plan it. We didn’t look at each other and say, “Let’s eat in silence from now on.” It just happened. I think we were both afraid to speak. Afraid that if we opened our mouths, all the sadness would come pouring out and never stop.

So we didn’t.

We just… ate.

Every night at six.

Same table. Same silence.

Forks clinking against plates. Glasses filled, emptied, refilled.

Occasionally a soft sigh, but no words.

It wasn’t cold or angry. Just quiet.

It became our ritual. Our way of surviving.

I remember one night, maybe six months in, I dropped my fork. It hit the floor with a loud clang that felt like it echoed. I looked at my dad. He looked at me.

And for a moment, I thought one of us might say something. But we didn’t.

We just kept eating.

During the day, we spoke when we had to—quick updates about groceries or bills or who was taking the trash out. But dinner? Dinner was sacred in its silence.

And somehow, that space—so empty of sound—was full of something else: understanding.

It’s hard to explain unless you’ve grieved with someone.

Sometimes words just get in the way.

I didn’t need to ask my dad if he missed her—I saw it in the way he still poured her glass of water without thinking. He didn’t need to ask me how I was holding up—I think he knew just by the way I picked at my food some nights, my appetite gone with the sun.

One night, almost a year to the day since she passed, I came home to find my dad in the kitchen—not cooking, just sitting.

The table was set like always. But in the center, between the salt and pepper shakers, sat a small, worn recipe card.

It was my mom’s handwriting.

“Her chicken and rice,” he said, quietly. “I thought maybe we could… try it tonight.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

I just nodded and helped.

We cooked together, reading her words like a map back to her.

The meal didn’t taste exactly like hers. It was too salty. The rice was a little underdone. But it didn’t matter.

That night, for the first time in a year, my dad spoke during dinner.

He said, “She’d probably laugh at how bad this turned out.”

I smiled. “Yeah. She’d definitely tell us we messed it up.”

And then—like a light slowly coming on—we talked.

Not a lot. Not about anything big. But enough.

Enough to let the air move between us again. Enough to know we were still here. Still trying.

The silence hadn’t been a wall. It had been a bridge.

A strange, quiet, necessary bridge that carried us over a year of pain. One meal at a time.

We didn’t need to talk to love each other.

But when we were ready to speak again, love was there—steady and waiting.

Moral of the Story:

Grief doesn’t always sound like sobs or breaking plates. Sometimes it sounds like silence. And that silence, while hard, can hold more love than words ever could. Healing doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes, it's sitting across from someone night after night, simply showing up, even when the words aren’t ready yet.

In time, they return. So does life. And so does love.

----------------------------------

Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi